Of Falling Without Landing
by Jiasa Stormcloud
Summary: In which we follow Aziraphale's humanization, and the development of the Arrangement . . . and Other Things.
1. Prologue

In the beginning, Aziraphale hadn't expected to spend much time on Earth. He was an angel, after all, and angels belonged in Heaven, Doing Heavenly Deeds. Not that Heavenly Deeds could not be Done on Earth. They could, and had been, at times. But Aziraphale was fond of Heaven, of warmth and light, and song. When he'd been told he would be sent to Earth, he had stared down through the clouds, and gulped.

It was an all right world, he'd thought, but not something he'd like to get used to. Eden had been nice, but Eden was gone. And even the garden carried aching, sad little memories. Memories of the tree, and the fruit, and the poor woman who had wanted Knowledge, of all things, and of two sad little figures retreating into the distance. And, of course, the "misplacement" of Aziraphale's sword.

_Could _angels do wrong? he had wondered. Had he been wrong to want to help? Was this cold and sharp world to be his punishment?

But, when the time came, he took upon himself the human body that had been created for him. Once his newly created feet touched soil, they remained in that spot for a long, mesmorising time, as Aziraphale's blue eyes stared at his soft, pale hands.

He'd never had hands before. Not really.

Angels were like breath on the winds, delicate, but unbreakable. There was no form to break.

Suddenly, he felt very, very fragile.

This feeling never receded, not for the first century or so. For many years, a thin, whispy voice screamed in the back of his oh-so-human brain to shed the breakable shell of a body he had entered. But he persevered in his earthly surroundings, because he was an angel, and angels do _not _shirk their divine duties. Not often, anyhow.

Years later, Aziraphale would wonder if just a _little_ shirking might have been a good idea.


	2. In which Aziraphale discovers good wine

**Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:**

If you think I created Good Omens, I thank you for your flattering mistake. 

-----

_**In which Aziraphale discovers good wine:**_

It had been a Long Time.

Centuries, in fact.

This did not particularly bother Aziraphale. He could have done with another decade or two, really.

"Crowley." The demon's name clung unpleasantly to Aziraphale's lips as he spoke it.

"Angel." Crowley smiled. Smirked. Every smile to touch Crowley's mouth became a smirk.

Aziraphale sat silently for a moment, not quite sure what to say. What, exactly, did social protocol call for in this particular situation? Crowley was one of Them. From Below. A Demon. The preordained tension between Above and Below required exhausting amounts of mental capital letters. So what was the appropriate civil reaction to sitting across from a demon at a feudal lord's feast?

Probably to stab him, Aziraphale considered. That was how the humans did it. After some speculation, he decided not to.

"What have you been up to, then?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blinked.

"Heavenly deeds and all that. What are you working on hereabouts? Keeping the Book in the hands of priests? Or getting rid of those . . . indulgences, are they? They're spending a lot of time arguing over what Heaven wants from them these days. Which side are you on?"

The angel sighed. "It's hard to say."

"Ah." Crowley nodded. "I expect it would be."

Aziraphale wondered briefly what was meant by this. He suspected Crowley was merely being Vague. He disliked Vagueness. To his growing annoyance, the demon's casual manner was making it difficult to dislike Crowley. It made things . . . more Vague.

"What about you?" he wondered.

Crowley grinned. "Many things. Riling the peasants, hoping for a revolution."

"Freeing the common folk doesn't seem like your style," Aziraphale commented. "Ending centuries of oppression doesn't seem like the sort of thing that earns much praise . . . Below."

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. "If they win, they'll just set up a new oppressive government. If they lose, the survivors will be put to death. Either way, there will be piles of bodies."

Aziraphale paled. "Whatever happened to tempting holy men?" he gasped weakly.

Crowley waved a ragged-looking servant over. The boy poured wine into two large, rather clumsy vessels, and scurried away with the air of one who had often been kicked for not getting out of sight quite fast enough. Crowley stared at the liquid (which was not much like blood, really) for a moment, then set one of the two glasses before his companion.

"Not my style," he replied.

Aziraphale swallowed hard, avoiding the serpentine eyes that studied him. He took a long draught of the wine. It burned not unpleasantly in the back of his throat, chasing away the chill that settled over him.

"Although," Crowley added, "I'm not sure revolutions are, either."

At this, Aziraphale looked up. Angels were not, and still are not, and never will be hateful creatures. Yet it seemed hate was only expected between an angel and a demon.

If this was true, Aziraphale was not sure he was a very good angel at all.

**-----**

**Further AuthorBabble:**

_Authors rarely improve without feedback. Rescue a story: concrit today!_

The chapters will lengthen. I promise.


	3. In which Aziraphale goes to the theatre

**Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:**

If I said Good Omens were mine, I expect you'd know better.

**In which Aziraphale discovers the theatre:**

In London's streets, Aziraphale was never sure whether the crowd would crush him, or embrace him. What he had begun to discover was that he didn't really care. Either way, it was pleasant. Somehow.

He'd gotten used to the bellowing of various tradesmen selling their wares. He'd gotten used to beggars, and thieves, and prostitutes, somehow. If he thought too hard about it, this idea worried him, in a mild way.

Currently, Aziraphale was weary of choking on dust in his room above the tavern, and had decided some (comparatively) fresh air would do him good. He nudged, ducked, sidled, and edged through the crowd, here and there catching a glimpse of an interesting face, elbow, or jerkin. This was routine. This was comfortable, and not at all worrying.

The worrying thing was the hand that caught him by the arm. While Aziraphale was fond of London, he had no illusions about its population. "I haven't any money," he said automatically.

"Hello to you too, angel."

Aziraphale turned as best as he could in the tightly-pressed throng, and met Crowley's slit-pupiled gaze. "Oh."

Crowley smiled, in a way that was less smirk-like than usual. "Been keeping busy?" he asked.

"Yes, I suppose so." Aziraphale glanced at a small visible portion of the ground, then wished he hadn't.

"Me neither," replied the demon. Still grasping Aziraphale's arm, he ducked out of the flow of the crowd. Left with few alternatives, (1)Aziraphale followed. "Hastur's doing most of the work hereabouts. You might want to keep an eye on the royal family, by the way."

Aziraphale had stopped "keeping an eye on" the english royal family after Henry VIII had Anne Boleyn beheaded. Of the crown at present, all he knew was that Elizabeth was called "the Virgin Queen." He remembered this only because he sincerely doubted it. (2)

"Tell me, angel," said Crowley. "Have you ever been to the theatre?"

------------------------------------------

Aziraphale had not, in fact, been to the theatre before. His brow furrowed as he stared up at the stage. "What's happening up there?" he asked Crowley.

"Well, you see that man-- no, not that one, the one with the beard. He wants to marry off his daughter. But he can't until the other one's married, first."

"Why?"

Crowley blinked. "How should I know? It's theatre. Anyhow, the older one's pretty much hellspawn. So to speak."

" . . . Oh." Aziraphale had missed a good chunk of the first two scenes ducking flying vegetables. It seemed the audience was not particularly fond of the actor playing Kate.

Then Bianca came onstage. The boy-actor moved like a woman (3), or at least how women were supposed to move. The audience went silent. When he spoke, he ceased to be a young man standing on a nearly bare stage, wearing a worn, gaudy dress and a bad wig. He was a blushing young beauty, deeply in love. His voice was sweeter than any girl's, and surely he was more beautiful. (4)

"Who _is _that?" Aziraphale wondered. The man behind him, who had until recently been throwing rotted apples at the stage, sent a stabbing glare his way. Aziraphale ignored him.

"That's Bianca, the nice one."

"I meant the actor," said Aziraphale.

"Oh," replied Crowley. "His name is Willie Hughes (5), I think. Brilliant, isn't he?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Amazing!"

An apple hit him in the back of the neck. "Shut up, will you, you stupid poof!"

There was a yelp a moment later as the man's boot became a small inferno. Crowley smirked.

_Maybe, _thought Aziraphale, smiling faintly, _there are advantages to spending time with demons, after all._

(1) That included keeping his arm, at least

(2) Even angels know better than to assume being unmarried means virginity.

(3) Not that anyone would have seen if he hadn't. His legs could have been tap-dancing under that mass of skirts, and no one would have noticed.

(4) This had nothing to do with certain commonly formed impressions about Aziraphale-- it simply _was_.  
(5) If you understand this reference, I love you. Deeply. Devotedly. Marry me, please?

_Authors rarely improve without feedback. Rescue a story: concrit today!_


	4. In which Aziraphale is oblivious

_Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:_

I wish I could say I owned Good Omens. Think of the ego boost!

Nor do I own Oscar Wilde. There's a quote or two sprinkled throughout the chapter (but only where appropriate, I hope.) I take no credit for his wit.

I was going to be a good girl and take my time going through the centuries, visiting more places, and be really interesting and developed about it all. But then the plotbunny for this chapter wouldn't stop bugging me. So, here it is.

:D CAMEO TIME.

* * *

**In Which Aziraphale is Oblivious**

London again. There was no good explanation for why Aziraphale loved the city so much. Over time, as the women had switched partlets for petticoats, and technology developed, as it became more and more crowded, and boys like Willie Hughes were replaced on the stage by women . . . well, he would have expected it to overwhelm him. But he'd really begun to think of it as Home.

That was dangerous. Heaven was Home. That was supposed to be a given.

Aziraphale was meeting with Crowley today. In about five minutes, actually. This was also dangerous, he expected. Crowley would be in London for no reasons other than the ones Aziraphale was supposed to deplore. Thus, Aziraphale should, by all logic, be ready to prevent this.

That wasn't how it worked anymore, though. Crowley didn't stir up too much trouble where Aziraphale was trying to do good, and Aziraphale didn't thwart any more sternly than necessary. For a long while, they'd each been carefully unaware of what the other was doing. That time was fading. Now they each knew where the other was and what they were working on. They tried not to discuss it, as it tended to be an awkward topic. But really, they shouldn't be talking about much of _anything._

However, Aziraphale found that he --dangerous as it was-- enjoyed the demon's company. And so, when Crowley had suggested they meet at a cafe that afternoon, he'd accepted with only the faintest of misgivings.

If he really wanted, he could probably justify this to Heaven. Call it a conversion effort. The idea made Aziraphale smile. What? Would heavenly light . . . rub off on the demon? (1)

Yet more danger. The consideration of _lying _to Heaven.

It was not long until he reached the café. He found Crowley with some difficulty-- his friend was seated at an outdoor table, and it seemed to be quite crowded with people. The crowd seemed to be centered around a dark-haired man who lounged as if draped across his chair. As Aziraphale drew nearer, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke, edged with another smell, one he did not recognize. It weighed heavy on the air. The man made large, languid gestures with his free hand as he spoke.

Aziraphale reached the table and stood, listening.

"-- and not for some time after her death was it discovered that Aunt Jane had quite forgotten to send out any invitations!" Laughter rose from the gathered crowd about him. He leaned back further in his chair, and then halted. He blinked.

"And who might you be?" he questioned.

It took a moment to register with Aziraphale that the question was directed at him.

A familiar voice broke in. "He's a friend of mine," said Crowley, standing. "Mr. Wilde, I'd like to introduce to you my friend Mr. Ziraphale. And this," he told Aziraphale, "this is Oscar Wilde. You may have heard of him?"

Aziraphale had not. He smiled faintly. "Ah . . . yes. Oscar Wilde, the, ah . . ."

"The writer," Crowley supplied, with a slight amused twist of the mouth.

"Yes. I'm, ah . . . pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilde."

Wilde nodded, taking one last drag on his cigarette before dropping it and crushing it beneath his foot. He lit another immediately. "Have you any other name, Mr. Ziraphale?"

Aziraphale went slightly pale. "Pardon?"

"Your given name."

"Oh. Ah . . ." Aziraphale bit his lip, thinking. "It's . . ."

This was not a common question. Generally, "Mr. A. Ziraphale" was quite enough for most people. Now Aziraphale was stuck wondering what, according to the deeds to his house, the 'A' stood for.

"His name is Adrian," Crowley said.

Mr. Wilde quirked an enquiring eyebrow. "Poor memory?" he wondered.

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. "Ah, yes. I suppose so."

"Well," Wilde said. "Do take a seat, won't you? Join us."

Aziraphale glanced about. There was not an empty chair in sight. Wilde glanced about, and his gaze settled on a pretty young lady wearing a broad-brimmed hat. She stood. "Well," she said. "I really ought to be going. I can't be idling about here all day."

"No," said Wilde. "I expect you should be idling about somewhere else very shortly."(2)

The young woman blinked, and then the words seemed to settle into her mind. She laughed, pleasantly surprised by the joke.

Aziraphale took the now-vacated seat, folding his hands before him on the table. "So . . ."

"So, is your friend going to tell me anything about himself, Crowley, or will you speak for him?" Wilde wondered aloud. "If I must never hear it from him, I should prefer to invent my own ideas."

"I assure you, they'd be more interesting," Crowley informed him.

Aziraphale glared.

The writer laughed. He seemed to be studying Aziraphale, his pale eyes half-lidded, but still intense.

Aziraphale coughed. "Well," he began.

"Yes?"

"I, ah . . . I own a book shop."

"A book shop. Fascinating."

Crowley grinned, and quickly forced his amusement down.

Smoke curled around Wilde's face as he spoke. "A cousin of mine owned a book shop once," he began . . .

It was many hours before the scheduled meeting finally ended. Aziraphale slowly relaxed, the tension working its way out of his shoulders and his voice. He listened intently to the writer's stories, and tried not to wonder too much just what Crowley seemed to be laughing at. When Wilde at last stood and announced that he absolutely _must _be off, the ground was littered with cigarette butts, and the table still full of nearly untouched plates.

"Hardly seems a point to staying now," Crowley mused. He had not quite managed to smother his own smirk.

"What ever is so funny?" Aziraphale demanded.

"Absolutely nothing," Crowley replied. "Nothing at all."

"I know you, Crowley." _What a terrifying thought! _considered Aziraphale. "And I know that right now, you are moments away from falling over laughing."

Silence. Then, the edge of amusement softened slightly, Crowley said, "You realize why he was so interested in you, don't you?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. I don't know what it is _you're _thinking of, but I expect he found we had something in common."

"Angel," said Crowley, "If you knew anything about him, you wouldn't be so quick to say that."

Aziraphale frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"The man will someday drink himself to his grave, he's got terrible taste in his friends, and that smell you were wondering about-- in the cigarette smoke-- that's opium," Crowley informed him. He paused for a moment. "But he's a genius. There's no denying that he's a genius."

_So . . . why _was _he so interested in me? _Aziraphale wondered.

Aziraphale was not, exactly, an aesthete's dream. He was certainly no Adonis. He was an angel, and angels _are _beautiful. But he was, after all, inhabiting a human body, and that body was not particularly extraordinary. (3) However, there was something that made people _remember _him as such. Maybe it was a little bit of halo creeping through that made his hair seem like gold.

Crowley only once more invited him to spend time around the writer. The next time it was at a smaller, less respectable establishment. The heavy opium-smell was thicker around Wilde this time, and he drank absinthe the whole night through. Aziraphale choked on the cigarette smoke, and never quite managed to relax.

His fascination crept down into a quiet corner of his mind, rather disheartened suddenly.

Crowley seemed to note his glum expression, and offered a sad smile.

"A genius," Aziraphale said later, as they were leaving.

"Indeed."

"I could help him," said the angel.

"No, you couldn't," replied Crowley.

He was right, of course.

Humans had a tendency to destroy themselves. And once they were really, truly determined to do so, there was no stopping them.

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose . . . I mean, you didn't . . ." he trailed off.

"No, angel," replied Crowley. "I've had nothing to do with it. The drinking, the opium, the rent boys . . . all been going on long before I met him. He did it himself. Truly brilliant people often do."

"I know." Aziraphale had already known the answer. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved, or frustrated. He'd have liked to blame someone. But not Crowley. He paused. "Rent boys?" he queried.

Crowley laughed. "Of all things, angel," he said. "_That's _what surprises you?"

* * *

(1) Aziraphale had often wondered, as demons are only fallen angels, if it were possible for one to fall in reverse, _back _to Heaven. If not, what happened to demons who thoroughly displeased Hell? . . . Then again, Aziraphale decided, he'd rather not consider that question.

(2) For clarification's sake, not mine. Wilde's. Taken straight from "An Ideal Husband," and given Wilde's love of quote-recycling, probably at least two other plays and a short story.

(3) For example, his eyes could only be compared to the sky on a rather miserable day.

_Authors rarely improve without feedback. Rescue a story: concrit today!_

I'm not sure if this chapter actually advanced anything within the plot of the story, but it has been nagging at me for a long while now. And I do like some of the things that happened, characterization-wise. I'd like some advice as to this bit. Was it a bad idea to use Wilde's name? Would it have been better to create an original character, similar to him? I liked the idea since Aziraphale collected Wilde first-editions in the book. What think you?

To those of you who've left feedback already, thank you very much. It's so nice to hear people's opinions on a story . . . and useful, as I've corrected a few errors people notified me of in previous chapters!


End file.
